


a cold love

by fadinglove



Category: The Dark Artifices Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Angry Sex, Bondage, Faeries Made Them Do It, Intense, Jealous Mark, M/M, One Shot, Passion, Pre-Book 1: Lady Midnight, Spoilers for Book 1: Lady Midnight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-21 09:11:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11354340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadinglove/pseuds/fadinglove
Summary: "You pushed me over a glacier," Kieran says in wonder, and Mark kisses him hard and fast and desperately.





	a cold love

**Author's Note:**

> pure smut.

There were many lost days in Faerie, and this was one. 

Mark Blackthorn could only see, by his eyes, the remnants of a dying battle. Some kind of Downworlder scuffle gone awry, a number of warlocks dead by magic. It's evident by the slashing burns across each throat.

Permanent. Brutal. It's dark and loud, the roaring of the Hunt hurtling towards the battlefield and raising fleeing souls, harvesting the dead. 

He can only see muddled shapes flickering in and out of existence nearby, some running and some disappearing into air. 

Mark can't see his prince. 

He turns around, full circle, but his hands feel heavy. A large, hulking shape looms in the distance- Gwyn? He can't be sure. 

Something overtakes Mark, makes his vision sharper and breaths faster. He's lost in this darkness, this neverending darkness, and his only light is gone- gone to who knows where-

"Mark," says a voice from behind, almost lost in the din. Mark whirls around to see a silhouette against the sloping ice of the land, and it steps closer. "Kieran," he yells, and strides forward in desperation, placing tentative fingers upon his shoulders. "Kieran, you were lost to me, I thought-"

"Who, pray tell, is this?"

Mark steps back in confusion, at the cutting female voice. And at that moment the clouds move the slightest to reveal the moon, and a slice of light falls upon Kieran and a companion.

She's beautiful and cold, as all faeries are. Golden tresses cascade to her back and she wears a gentle dress of fine cobweb and sewed flowers. Her face is daintily shaped but her eyes convey something much more resilient. 

She's awfully close to Kieran.

The Blackthorn regains his composure. "I am Mark Hunter." And he makes to kneel and kiss her hand, but she draws back ever so slightly, into Kieran. A hint of a scowl disgraces her pretty face. He continues, "Your name, my fair lady?"

"Lady Eglantine," she replies. Mark wonders what a gentry fairy is doing here.

"I visit to deliever a message from your father the King," Eglantine turns to the Prince, and she's smiling beautifully, flirtatiously. It disappears as she turns back to Mark. "Without watching eyes."

"Apologies, my lady," Mark says, and he turns to leave.

"Surely you cannot associate yourself with a half-breed," he hears her sneer to Kieran right afterwards. Mark walks faster. 

After a good distance he turns, fuming. He sees Kieran, tall and lithe, facing the gentry Lady Eglantine, and she's even closer. One hand delicately resting on her bosom, one grasping at the Prince's arm, her thick hair blowing back ever so slightly in the winds. How dare she look at Mark like he was scum, how dare she look at Kieran that way- she was a fool- a fool and nothing more-

"Taking into account the thoughts of those unimportant only fuels anger." Mark turns to find Gwyn, large and stolid and wise as always. 

"She looks upon me as if I am- I am _nothing,"_ Mark snarls, "As if it bears my own fault I have blood of two halves. And she attempts to flatter a faerie she knows nothing of and has no desire to." The words pour out, while the Lady whispers something in Kieran's ear, hands travelling, body sweet. 

"Mark, you are not nothing. You are a Hunter. Some simply cannot see it," Gwyn says, before disappearing back into the night sky. Mark only watches him leave, settling himself, and looks back up to see Kieran walking towards him, Lady nowhere in sight. He realizes the field has been almost emptied, blood drying. Much of the Hunt has most likely taken shelter by now, nowhere to be seen.

It's cold.

"Scoundrel," Mark spits once Kieran is in earshot. "Where is that high and mighty lady? Leave and lie with her." He's awfully tired and angry and the words flow like poison, like toxic.

Kieran's expression quickly turns dark and his hair darker. Stormy seas. "Such anger is uneeded. You are only jealous."

" _Jealous!"_ Markthunders. "Jealous I am. As a half-breed I cannot even dream of approaching you. I am merely cowering under you."

"A half-breed you are."

" _Scoundrel!_ Go! Go and lie with her! Perhaps then your father the King will take you back. Perhaps then you can vie for the throne."

"Perhaps I might," Kieran snarls, and Mark runs forward and pushes the Prince with all of his strength and rage, bundled up into a burst of energy. 

He flies headfirst over the glacier's edge, that they were standing so precariously on. Mark whirls around to leave, chest churning.

He turns back and jumps over the edge, soaring down into white.

Their landings are nearly similar, and Kieran lands first into the snow and ice. Mark follows, curling up to roll, spreading impact throughout his body just as Gwyn taught him. He looks up. Kieran is spread out on his back, one leg bent up, and Mark scrabbles on the ice until he rests on top of the Prince, chest heaving and breathing fast. 

"You pushed me over a glacier," Kieran says in wonder, and Mark kisses him hard and fast and desperately. 

The response is instant. 

They're only two boys pushing against each other, fierce and blazing. Mark braces his arms on either side of Kieran's head, and he can't touch enough of the lithe body. His hair is a multitude of color, changing by the second. And Mark only feels an insatiable lust, the overwhelming desire to rut against his Prince until he comes. 

"By the Angel," Mark groans and he has one leg in between Kieran's two and he's nearly pushing himself up against him. It's rough, rougher than usual.

And he remembers the rope hanging loose from his pants. And an idea reaches his mind, and idea of what if- what if-

Mark pulls back. A thin trunk of a tree, behind him. "Come here," he says, and Kieran props himself up on his elbows, hair mussed and lips swollen and eyes unfocused. Confused. "Really?" he says. 

"Come here," he growls again, and Kieran complies, sitting against the tree. "Close your eyes." He does. 

And carefully, tentatively, Mark takes Kieran's wrists and ties them together with the rope. He raises them up, above the faerie's head, and ties them to the tree trunk. He strains against the ropes, but they don't give.

"Perfect," says Mark.

"Why-"

He kisses him again, but this time it's slow and searing. Wildly he grasps the Prince's face between his hands, and then lets his fingers travel downwards to his shoulders and then chest and brush the hip bones. Mark can feel Kieran fighting the restraints. He knows he's aching to touch him, too.

He makes his way down Kieran's chest, kissing  and sucking, while the faerie leans into the touch. 

And Mark parts the faerie's knees ever so slightly, looking up for permission, but Kieran is a writhing mess of unleashed desire. He loves the control he has over Kieran, the ability to undo him so quickly and passionately. There are few things he has had control of in his life and this is one of them. 

He kisses the nook of Kieran's neck once tenderly before pushing in. 

"Mark," Kieran breathes, part pleasure and pain- his eyes flutter close and lips part in ecstacy. But his muscles are tense, and breathing unsteady. Unsure.

"Trust me," says Mark, and runs a careful hand over Kieran's muscles until he relaxes. He begins to move then, rocking forward with small motions, and moans without meaning to. He's so tight, by the Angel, it grips him-

Then the Prince clutches desperately at his hips in a silent plea, and Mark lengthens each thrust and enters with more abandon each time. He shifts position and angles himself, eliciting a loud cry from Kieran, and he keeps hitting that same spot over and over again. "Mark, I-"

"Ssh," Mark whispers, face and body flushed with the heat of passion. He runs his hands over every inch of his Prince's body, and he knows his Price is unable to touch him. It's driving him mad, he can tell.

The Shadowhunter rocks mercilessly, pulling nearly out before slamming back in, drawing long groans from Kieran. And when Kieran moans, "Mark, I'm going to come," he pulls completely out. 

The faerie whines at the sudden loss of contact, the empty and gaping hole that was just filled. His member is thick and leaking. Mark unapologetically runs a hand over it, and Kieran bucks against his hand involuntarily. And Kieran strains against his pinned arms, wanting to touch himself, relieve himself of this overwhelming pleasure. 

Mark touches him with long fingers that aren't too skilled but completely determined, running them over his entire length and teasing. He enters Kieran again, thrusting while still touching him. 

He watches his Prince finish. It's beautiful. Kieran groans, leaning his head back, and convulses as he comes, from the pressure of a hand on his cock and another within him. Mark can almost feel it in his own bones, an electrification that makes its way up and down and everywhere. 

He looks into his Prince's eyes, one silver and one black, pupils dilated from lust. He knows he has found his one star in the night sky. 


End file.
